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Dischord Records may not be slinging post-punk upstarts with the frequency of its heyday, but from an influence standpoint, Ian MacKaye’s accomplishing more than ever, particularly in his home turf: Washington, D.C. Even now, if you attend a local show within a 30-mile radius of the city, you’re bound to hear a band who've memorized Dischord's knotty, clever post-punk paradigms, usually the work of Fugazi or Rites of Spring. Silver Spring, Md.'s Two Inch Astronaut certainly fit the bill: a deft, bristling act whose energy stems from the uneasy suturing of uplifting, persistent melodies to an overactive rhythm section that threatens to dismantle it—and the lopsided pop hooks that result. The band’s first two albums, 2013’s Bad Brother and 2014’s Foulbrood, belie a curious magnetism, not unlike that of their heroes, Jawbox. Perhaps that’s why that band’s mastermind, J. Robbins, signed on to man the boards for Two Inch Astronaut’s latest and best record, Personal Life.

Up until recently, Two Inch Astronaut have operated as a duo: Sam Rosenberg did triple duty as a bassist, guitarist, and vocalist, recording the melodic parts individually and later tethering them to Matt Gatwood’s oscillating tempos. Between Foulbrood and Personal Life, the band became a trio, adding former Grass Is Green bassist Andy Chervenak to their ranks: an adept, aggressive arpeggiator with grooves that refuse to be ignored, not to mention a capable background vocalist, armed with a full-throated tenor. Suddenly, the cramped, crunchy sound has expanded to include more melodic counterpoints across all fronts (vocals, guitars, etc.), not to mention some much-needed embellishment. Accordingly, tracks like "At Risk Student" and "Woodstock ’99" offer a welcome respite from their peers' murky chug, as well as a departure from the preceding albums’ occasionally rote arrangements.

They may be a fuller unit than ever before, but compared to their previous works, Personal Life is the band’s most restrained album to date. The trio depends on beats, breaks, and pauses as much as any riff, and Rosenberg’s vocals rarely careen off-track like that of, say, Titus Andronicus’ Patrick Stickles. What’s more, Robbins frequently submerges them in the mix—on the ballad-ish "Andy’s Progress Report" and "Good Companion," natch—so as to render them smooth textural complements to the jagged acoustic strums and burbling basslines. Despite their frequent reticence, the band entertain their rambunctious past on more than a few occasions: Gatwood and Chervenak throw a syncopated temper tantrum on the sardonic "Sexual Prince of the Universe," while the title track nips the jam sessions in the bud in favor some straightforward screaming.

Every song on Personal Life has its unique quirks, usually lyrical: Consider the endearing resignation of the opening track, where Rosenberg mumbles "I did good/ But it weren’t good enough," his self-aware grammar-botching the equivalent of a smug shrug. Equally clever is "A Happy Song," where the frontman manages to turn an unflattering comparison to a dog getting scratched behind the ears into a couplet that sounds strangely sweet. But from a musical perspective, the band’s more formulaic than they let on: by the time "Andy’s Progress Report" rolls around, the rhythmic games of Red Light, Green Light grows wearisome, as do the jumpy, post-coda digressions, ripped from the pages of the first Pinback record. "Topper Shutt," meanwhile, traces over Weezer’s "Undone (The Sweater Song)," right down to the serpentine central riff and reliance on two-syllable phrases. Nevertheless, Personal Life legitimizes Two Inch Astronaut as a respectable alternative to the regurgitated grunge that threatens to define rock’s '90s revival.